


On the Precipice

by Rosage



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), referenced injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23248318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: With the final battle looming, Ferdinand makes a confession.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 21
Kudos: 279





	On the Precipice

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics come from Ferdinand and Manuela’s supports.

Ferdinand finds Hubert beyond the Tailtean plains, staring over the river that defends Fhirdiad. One final obstacle before they reach what Ferdinand described to the professor as the world’s edge. Even if that was a childhood fancy, he shivers as he crosses the muck to Hubert’s side, on the precipice of something from which they can’t return.

Away from the campfires, there is only the moon’s reflection on the water, which rushes along heedless of the moment’s stillness. The red fields of Ferdinand’s favorite opera stretch behind them. Despite its source, the tale of vengeance suits Hubert better. Ferdinand fought on those plains for peace, for closure, and the blood in his mouth tasted the same.

_On the crimson rain of pain it came..._

“What is that you’re humming?” Hubert asks. Ferdinand jolts, his cheeks flaring.

“I was only keeping warm.”

“By humming.”

“The vibrations…” Ferdinand begins, and waves a hand aimlessly before giving up. He rests his hand on the hilt of his sword, feeling naked without his armor, despite the cloak guarding him from the night. “Actually, I wished to speak with you.”

“I am listening.”

Ferdinand shifts, disturbing the tall grass in this otherwise barren territory. The climate gives him an excuse to stand a little too close to Hubert, to leech his warmth. Some would assume that a fruitless endeavor. How many moons, battles, tea breaks ago would Ferdinand have agreed?

“Our final battle draws near,” Ferdinand says.

“Yes. By this time tomorrow, this war will be decided.”

_This_ war. The back of Ferdinand’s neck prickles. “What will you do after this?”  
  
“Serve Her Majesty until my last breath, of course.” It is so simple when he describes it, the future that yawns like a chasm before Ferdinand.

“Let us hope that last breath does not come tomorrow.”

Hubert breathes half a chuckle. “What an ominous thing to say.”

“It must be the company I keep,” Ferdinand says, reaching for the chuckle’s other half. It eludes him. Already, this is not coming out right. After a historic battle against soldiers mutating into demonic beasts, Ferdinand had no time to prepare a speech. Yet what he must say burns in his chest, like if he does not release it now, his cinders will drift away on the current.

“I suppose I will do the same as you,” Ferdinand says, as casually as one can whisper in the dark. Hubert turns his head, his gaze assessing all he can pull out of Ferdinand.

“Then let us hope you do not breathe your last tomorrow, either.”

“Good thing I did not choose a different path. Had I done so, I wager you would drown me after the battle.”

“There are other options,” Hubert says, his voice odd. Ferdinand cannot parse it, nor address what he wishes.

“Oh, of course. Poison, magic—”

“Your service is enough basis to petition for Aegir to be returned.”

Ferdinand freezes. Bugs gather over the water, frenetic in the silver light, while he struggles to speak.

Hubert continues, “Should you not wish to return to Enbarr…”

“I do,” Ferdinand blurts. “I wish for nothing more. I shall follow Edelgard wherever her path leads, though I confess to hoping it loops back home.”

It is too dark to tell if the moonlight softens Hubert, or if it is just that his whisper quiets, so hushed it beckons Ferdinand closer. “I am sure it will.”

Sand lodges in Ferdinand’s throat. He clears it. “Of course, I will ensure my—I will ensure the people I served are cared for. But my place is elsewhere, if I am welcome.”

“I do not think you have cause for concern, but should we not focus on the next step?”

“Anything can happen in battle. I do not wish to regret leaving things unsaid, should we not take the next step together.”

Hubert’s elbow brushes Ferdinand as he crosses his arms. “Those don’t sound like the words of an optimist.”

“I have been a general, rallying others, for years. Soon, the objective mindset of an advisor will be more appropriate, will it not?” Even squinting, Ferdinand cannot tell if Hubert approves.

“I do despise regrets. Did you only wish to tell me you plan to return with us?” Hubert asks.

Ferdinand musters the courage he used to lead his battalion across the plains, the courage he will draw from to face the heavens.

_We must stay strong and stand tall_.

“No. I… When I spoke of my place, I did not only mean beside Edelgard,” Ferdinand says.

“Your loyalties are split?”

“Never! How can that be, when you and she walk the same path?”

Hubert goes more rigid than Ferdinand did when he spoke of Aegir. A cold draft slips under Ferdinand’s cloak, even as his skin burns. He turns to face Hubert fully, letting his cloak slip open as he places a hand over his left breast. It thrums in his palm.

“Please, Hubert, you must have realized. I remain her knight, but my heart is your servant.”

Even in the light, Hubert’s face would give away nothing. The bugs buzz more insistently, as if to be heard over the water’s babble. Ferdinand feels himself tip, numb, over the edge.

“You need not respond. I know you do not separate your love from your devotion. I only wished to say my piece.” Ferdinand’s voice sounds like it comes from outside of him, from the surface he has plunged beneath. “Well! I have said it. Now then, one must get at least five hours of sleep before fighting the divine.”

With his hand still over his heart, he dips in a quick bow and turns.

A touch on his shoulder stops him. A whisper caresses his ear, and it is like the river changes course.

“It is not that I don’t…”

Hubert’s fingertips slide down Ferdinand’s arm. The touch seems to trail his spine. They are too close for him to dare turn, but his heart leaps in the space between them.

“Yes?” Ferdinand manages.  
  
“Please understand. She and I walked this path alone for so long.” Up close, his whisper sounds hoarse and tired.

The chill finds Ferdinand again. He is no longer so naïve as to believe his friends aren’t keeping secrets, burdens shared with the professor in the best-case scenario. He pivots to face Hubert.

“You do not have to. Neither of you do. If we are to change the world, should change not begin from within?” Ferdinand says.

They are a breath apart. Ferdinand watches Hubert’s seams start to unravel before he tilts away, hiding the eye not concealed by his bangs. “This is more than we can resolve tonight.”

Ferdinand dips his chin. “Of course. Please, get some rest.”

“You as well.”

Ferdinand wraps his cloak tight around him as he retreats.

* * *

The Immaculate One’s corpse oozes green. Ferdinand yearns to claw the Crest of a saint from his veins, along with everything else that burns within them. Instead, he sheathes his sword for the final time of this campaign.

He gathers his bearings with ragged breaths. The professor rests against a pillar, spattered and blue. Even without her vibrant hair, she seems to glow as she surveys her students. Caspar whoops and jostles a rather worn-looking Linhardt. Petra lands her wyvern beside Bernadetta, who slumps in her saddle while Dorothea leans against the horse’s neck. It all eases Ferdinand until he finds what he seeks.

Hubert and Edelgard stand wrapped around each other, amber framing their silhouette in the dim light, and Ferdinand forgets everything he wanted to pull out of himself. He wants to go to them; he wants to shield them from everyone else’s eyes. This is the culmination of what they planned, alone, for longer than he can guess.

_You do not have to_. But this is not the moment to say so. He turns, his hands clasping air, and settles on his sword’s hilt.

Those under his command line up for him as if this is not the end. As he channels everything bursting within him into a grin and a speech he’s hardly aware of, his eyes land on each face: some the surviving soldiers of Aegir, some from other territories or even other countries, all in one scarred family that will soon part ways. He’ll subject them to one last wordy oration when they are not all half-dead on their feet.

After he releases them to celebrate somewhere warm, Edelgard finds him. His beam is still glued to his face when it lands on her red-rimmed eyes, dropping him off the world’s edge yet again. He rests a hand on her pauldron.

“Rejoice! Not even the gods themselves could prevent our glorious victory,” he says. She laughs wetly.

“I could not have done it without you, friend,” she says. He cannot fight a painful swell, the part of him that still craves her validation, even with blood gluing ashes to their boots. “Please, rest. You’ve earned it.”

The words he spoke to others slide off him. He gestures around them at the crumbling city. “I cannot rest yet. But I think it would do wonders for the soldiers’ morale if you would set up camp with them.”

The idea of a campfire nourishing him, of joining others in song around it, turns his stomach.

_Falling hard upon a land aflame_.

She shakes her head. “At least see a healer soon,” she says.

He heads back through the city. Ashe and Annette know the area well enough to organize lines from the wells to the remaining fires. The battle has Mercedes too shaky to carry buckets; she stands taking in the ruin with glazed eyes. Ferdinand reaches for her shoulder, but his glove is too grimy for someone without armor. Quietly, he offers his waterskin and points out people who need healing, in hopes she will get off her feet. She thanks him, her eyes clearing enough to see him, and he leaves before she can look too closely.

After ensuring those efforts are organized, he searches burnt houses for survivors. He stamps out cinders in the streets, holds up his cape when smoke billows in, and keeps an eye out for beams falling from the charred frames. A little girl huddles in a corner, eyes wide and watery at the sight of him. Slowly, he coaxes her out, and she clings to his neck until her trembling older sibling comes and wrenches her away.

Even he reaches his limit. He pushes past it once, then again, and then all other thoughts slip away as Hubert approaches, his movements too slow to blame on the terrain. He is paler than usual, the greying of a drained mage. Out of tricks, he is so fragile. Ferdinand holds out a shaky arm to support him, and they hold each other up on their way back to the city’s edge, where the army has made camp.

Drunken laughter reaches Ferdinand from outside himself. He is only a little more aware of Edelgard directing the pair to a tent, which Ferdinand’s subordinates must have set up. They don’t speak, nor let go, until they enter and drop onto a cot.

Ferdinand lights a candle. Even in Faerghus, the day has drenched him in sweat. Everything is sticky and slow as he removes his armor. The situation does not catch up to him until Hubert peels off his jacket, revealing the slump of his broad shoulders, and Ferdinand’s mouth fills with ash.

“Apologies,” Hubert mumbles. “I can go no farther.”

His tent must be nearby, but others would see him like this. Others besides Ferdinand.

“Please! Stay, rest.”

They stare at each other, slack-jawed, until—apropos of nothing—Hubert says, “Happy birthday.”

He must be as delirious as Hubert looks. He keeps staring. Hubert squints.

“Do I have the date wrong?” Hubert asks.

A giggle bubbles out of Ferdinand’s crushed, smoke-filled chest, leading him to double over his lap.

“What in blazes is so funny?” Hubert asks.

“It is my birthday!” This doesn’t seem to elucidate anything. “This is,” he says between wheezes, “the most eventful party I, I have ever…”

It isn’t funny, but a quiet rumble escapes Hubert, until their shoulders are shaking against each other.

“To think, I brought Lady Edelgard so many heads, but not even a toe for you,” Hubert says.

“Truly gauche of you.”

Hubert lifts to flash him an awful grin. “While I regret to say we forgot the cake, there was plenty of fuel for candles.”

Ferdinand nudges him away. “Hubert, you are terrible. Absolutely horrid.”

“Thank you.”

“In recompense, you must sing for me.”

“Not likely.” A snatch of drunken ballad reaches them from outside. “How did that song you were humming go?”

Of all the things for Hubert to remember. Part of Ferdinand hoped he had dreamt the night before, but now, he cannot pretend his knee isn’t warm against Hubert’s. He picks at a scab on his arm. “I am less a fan of it than I used to be.”

The ballad ends. Hubert takes Ferdinand’s wrist and pulls him away from his absent scratching. “You’re bleeding.”

They’re both splattered with it, of course, and every part of Ferdinand expresses its soreness in a round. But Hubert searches him in jerky movements, hands lifting the hems of his clothes and sliding over his muscles, finding deep, oozing scratches on his bicep, side, and shin. It is all Ferdinand can do not to crumple under his care. He holds his breath until a glow emits from Hubert’s fingertips, splayed against Ferdinand’s side.

“Hubert, you…”

“This, at least, I haven’t expended.” He cannot have even tried, but he mumbles words of faith with a curse in his voice and his jacket stained green on the ground. Slowly, Ferdinand’s skin stitches together, making his teeth gnash. Hubert examines his work with a scowl. “Sloppy.” He repeats the action until Ferdinand is more or less whole.

When he’s done, he keeps Ferdinand’s sleeve up over his shoulder, his gaze following a trail of scars across everything exposed. At least it stays away from Ferdinand’s flushed face.

“So many scars for our lady,” Hubert murmurs.

“Some for her. Some for Fódlan, some for our friends, some for myself. Some…” He takes Hubert’s jittery hands and pulls them off of him. “Your turn.”

“I am uninjured.”

“Your turn,” Ferdinand says again, firmly.

Bruises mottle Hubert’s arm. Ferdinand reaches for a vulnerary despite Hubert’s insistence that it’s all from magic. “You fought a divine dragon and her most resilient fanatics. Please, Hubert.”

Clammy and shaking, Hubert lets Ferdinand rub slick thumbs into his palm and behind his knuckles, up his wrist, beyond his elbow. He massages the ointment around Hubert’s shoulder and below the back of his neck, everywhere he can heal without indecency. In the low light, Hubert’s face is a similar shade of purple as the rest of him. Ferdinand finally understands why Hubert would want to focus on one person; the occasional clatter or shout outside their tent, the multitude of reasons Ferdinand is scarred, all of it melts away for the tiny sigh his fingers pull from Hubert. It could become addictive.

But the moment he treats what he can, he pulls back. He can’t overstep and forget that Hubert might have half-accepted the heart Ferdinand thrust in his hands, but he has not offered his own. Ferdinand swallows. “You should get some rest.” Offering him a safe place to sleep is more important than Ferdinand’s feelings.

“Then who will make sure you don’t run back out into a blazing house?” Hubert asks. Despite his tone, he’s sunken into himself, keeping closer than necessary. Ferdinand reaches again, carefully, and guides them both to lie down. “Ah.”

“Is this all right?” Ferdinand whispers.

“Yes.”

Ferdinand blows out the candle and settles back, his shoulder again pressed against Hubert’s on the too-small cot. The development is not what he imagined; the stench of smoke clings to them more than they have the energy to cling to each other, let alone make passionate declarations. There is only Hubert beside him, still breathing, ensuring he will not be alone with his thoughts.

Said thoughts lose clarity before Hubert speaks, a quiet hiss in the dark. “My fight isn’t over.”

Like ambushing assassins, Ferdinand’s creeping suspicions return. He props up onto his side. “Hubert—”  
  
“I can say no more.”

It is too dark to make out his expression. Ferdinand clenches the sheet. _I knew it. You still will not let me help you. I still am not enough._

He takes a shuddering breath. Hubert let Ferdinand see him like this, with no power left but the power to heal. Now that the church has fallen, he will have to keep faith in whatever trust Hubert grants.

“I only mention it to say,” Hubert continues, “that as often as not, choosing me means sleeping alone.”

Too much has happened for Ferdinand to parse his meaning right away. Too much has happened for his heart to swell when he does. He lies back down, still facing Hubert, and closes his eyes.

“Just return in one piece,” Ferdinand says.  
  
“I will do my best.”

He slips partway to dozing. He is half-convinced he’s dreaming when Hubert says, “You were correct before. I do not separate devotion from love.”

Ferdinand sucks in a breath. “Hubert, just…”

“My fealty belongs to Her Majesty. I will have to draft you a different vow.”

Ferdinand treads water in a river of a thousand forks, down which lies everything he could ask. He shifts closer to rest his forehead against Hubert’s temple.

“Just return in one piece,” he repeats. “Home, to me.”

“I will,” Hubert says. “I promise.”


End file.
